


i believe in thunder

by dearwormwood



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Bar Fight, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 08:03:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11309181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearwormwood/pseuds/dearwormwood
Summary: Ronan gets in a bar fight, and arrives at St Agnes bloody and slightly drunk.





	i believe in thunder

**Author's Note:**

> “You, he said, are a terribly real thing, in a terribly false world,  
> and that, I believe, is why you are in so much pain.”  
> — Emilie Autumn, The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls

It was cold that night. Ronan probably should’ve considered that, before he decided to stagger down the streets towards Monmouth. He should’ve brought a jacket. Maybe he did, and he’d forgotten it in the bar. It didn’t seem to matter anymore.

His knuckles stung where the cold air bit at his split open skin. Gloves would also be nice. Some fucking Advil too. _Fuck_ his head hurt. He couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the bruise forming there that caused it. Probably both. He winced at the thought of the fucking _lecture_ he was going to get from Gansey, his tongue rolling in his mouth as he turned to spit blood onto the sidewalk.

“Fuck,” he swore, to no one in particular. Gansey was going to have _that look_ on his face, the let-down dad look. Noah would look smudgier and sadder than usual. Adam was just going to be – _disappointed._ He was almost tempted to skip town to avoid the confrontation all together, except he realised he’d left the BMW outside the bar. Ronan was stupid, but he wasn’t stupid enough to risk wrecking his car.

The headlights from an oncoming car washed over him, and for a second he could see the blood stains on the front of his shirt, wet where his nose was still dripping. _Damn._ He liked this shirt. Then again, he could probably just dream up another one.

Grumbling to himself about _dreams_ and _shirts,_ he kicked a rock at the road, watching it skim the concrete. It bounced against the curb on the other side of the narrow street. Ronan stopped walking and gave the rock a withering look. He stumbled a few steps forward onto the road, motivated by the alcohol-fuelled goal of kicking the rock again, when his eyes focused long enough on the house in front of him for him to process that it wasn’t meant to be there. Something twisted in his gut. He was nowhere _near_ Monmouth.

“Fuck,” he snarled again, for good measure.

He squinted at a road sign, trying to make out the words in the dark. Finally, painfully, he realised he wasn’t far from St. Agnes. Appearing at Adam’s doorstep right now would be the _fucking_ cherry on top of his already shitty night. He imagined Adam’s face when he saw him, bloody and drunk and concussed. And _broken,_ the word always hissing at the back of Ronan’s mind like a night horror.

It didn’t seem like Ronan had much of a choice; he limped down three more streets until he finally turned onto the one with the old church looming at the end of it. The throbbing in his head was a dull roar now, and his nose was still dripping onto his t-shirt, the blood sticking the fabric to his chest. His ribs ached, the memory of fists cracking against his bones making him grimace. For a second, he thought he knew what Gansey thought whenever he looked at Ronan, the other boy’s voice ringing in his head. _Why do you always pick fights? Why do you have such a death wish? Why can’t you try to be better?_ The thoughts were bitter, and they stung worse than his probably-cracked ribs.

He was almost at St Agnes, and he could see a dull light through the window of Adam’s loft apartment. He was probably up studying. Ever the perfect student.

Staggering up the stairs was harder than Ronan had anticipated. He was tired, he was hurt, and he didn’t really want to face Adam. At least with Gansey, Ronan knew what to expect. He never knew how Adam was going to react.

He knocked quietly on the door, his knuckles singing with pain. There was shuffling on the other side and then the door swung open.

Judging from Adam’s expression, he wasn’t expecting Ronan.

“Ronan. What-“ Adam paused, scanning his eyes over Ronan’s crumpled form. If he’d had any energy left, he might have felt self-conscious. Ronan’s mind caught on the way Adam said his first name, instead of just _Lynch_. He really was surprised. “What happened?” Ronan told himself that the way Adam’s voice softened, the gentle concern, was a drunken hallucination. “You look like you’ve been through a blender.” _Ah._ There it was.

Adam’s nose twitched, like he smelt something sour. Was it the alcohol on Ronan’s breath? Did it remind Adam of his father? An apology was nestled at the back of Ronan’s throat, but it stuck there with everything else he needed to say to Adam. His mouth was dry. He told himself it was the alcohol. “Thanks Parrish. Let me in.”

“Please would be nice. Also, I don’t want you to bleed on my carpet.” Adam shifted to cross his arms, and Ronan wanted to argue but he was also _really sore_ and _really tired._ Instead, he just stared back at Adam, waiting for him to break. It didn’t take long. Ronan could feel himself swaying on his feet, his vision tilting, and Adam must’ve noticed too.  He furrowed his eyebrows deeply before letting out a defeated sigh and pulling Ronan in. “Get in the shower.”

“Don’t tell Gansey.” The word’s left his mouth almost immediately, sounding a lot more desperate than he’d meant them too. Adam frowned, and Ronan thought about how much nicer Adam looked smiling (which seemed so rare, in comparison). Adam didn’t respond, and Ronan knew what that meant. He’d tell Gansey. “Please.” He gritted the word out, and it tasted bitter on his tongue, but Adam’s expression softened the slightest bit again.

“Fine. Just, go shower. You’re already getting blood on my carpet.” Adam pointed to two spots staining the crappy beige fabric. Ronan sniffed, trying to stop the bleeding. The movement sent a shock of pain through his skull. Adam placed his hands on Ronan’s shoulders, and gently pushed him into the bathroom before he could do any more damage.

Ronan hissed as he tried peeling his clothes off, the movement aching in every joint in his body. His bones were lead under his skin, and the pounding in his head hadn’t let up. He never wanted to listen to anything except indie folk music again. He staggered into the shower, leaving a red trail behind him on the tiles, and fumbled with the handles until a weak spray of freezing cold water sputtered out. Cursing loudly, he wrestled with the faucet until it was a bearable lukewarm temperature, where it seemed to stay no matter how far Ronan spun the hot water handle.

He cursed again, at the shitty water pressure and the shitty hot water. He pressed his forehead against the cool tiles. The grouting between the tiles itched the slightest bit, and the shock of cold almost made him want to stand up straight. _Almost._

It soothed his headache a little, but he didn’t want to wallow too long. He had no idea how long the pathetic hot water would last. (Adam also had to pay his water bill, on top of everything else, and Ronan convinced himself that wasn’t why he was cutting his shower short). Turning slowly, he grabbed at the bar of soap. A small part of his mind told him _this is what Adam uses; this is what Adam smells like_ , but he tried to ignore it as he ran it over his body.

The blood that had caked on his skin turned the water a murky red-brown. It seeped down the drain with the soap suds. His ribs were an ugly mess, mottled with bruises and cuts, and he hissed in pain when he ran the soap over the angry purple splotches on his left side. It’d be a miracle if his ribs weren’t broken _._ He was a fucking idiot. Did he really expect Adam to like him back when all he did was fuck up in front of him? That thought hurt more than any of his injuries could.

Groaning, he turned the water off, goose-bumps rising on his skin at the sudden loss of warmth. He groped for the towel hanging nearby, trying to dry himself as gently as possible. Moving hurt like a fucking _bitch._ Adam probably found some satisfaction in hearing Ronan swear and yell from the bathroom. Fuck him.

Glancing at his ruined shirt on the floor, Ronan realised that he could put his bloodied clothes back on, or ask Adam for some of his. Ronan had been wearing jeans, and he _really_ didn’t feel like struggling to put those back on. Plus, he didn’t think he’d be able to lift his arms long enough to get a shirt on without passing out.  Begrudgingly, he wrapped the towel around his hips, and stumbled over to the door, jerking it open. Adam was lying on the bed, and his head shot up at the noise. His expression shifted, something tensing as his eyes dragged down Ronan’s body.

“Can I borrow pants?” Ronan’s voice was hoarser than before he’d gotten in the shower. He was so tired, the once-warm buzz of the alcohol now cold and uncomfortable. Adam hesitated for a moment before nodding. He walked over to his chest of drawers and rummaged around, pulling out a pair of track pants and throwing them at Ronan. Ronan reached out an arm to catch them with his free hand, but pain jolted up his side at the movement and he snarled unhappily. Adam’s eyebrows furrowed again, the same expression as when he’d opened the door, and he parted his lips like he was going to say something. Ronan waited expectantly, but when Adam stayed silent he shuffled back into the bathroom, sore and exhausted.

Slipping back into his boxers and the sweatpants – _Adam’s_ sweatpants. Ronan revelled in the way they felt. Maybe he was being pathetic, but there was a kind of warm satisfaction that came with wearing his crush’s clothes. Crush? God that sounded _childish_. He rolled his eyes in the mirror and walked back into the apartment. Adam had moved from the bed to lean against the wall on the far side of the room. He was staring at Ronan. He looked tense. Worried. Unhappy.

Ronan realised he must look like a mess at the moment. Bruises everywhere, a probably broken nose, littered with cuts. Self-consciously, he moved to cross his arms across his bare chest. Maybe he should’ve opted for a shirt.

“Why’d you do it?” Adam finally broke the uneasy silence, his voice strangely tender. He took a step toward Ronan, exhaling loudly through his nose. He knew he wouldn’t get the answer he wanted.

“I was bored,” Ronan replied, and he didn’t know if that was true. He’d been angry (when was he not?), and lonely, and looking for some way to release that tension. Guess it worked.

“Do you often get beaten up when you’re bored?” There was an edge to Adam’s voice. It wasn’t sarcasm, it was irritation. Anger. Disappointment. Ronan felt _bad_.

“You should see the other guy.” Ronan scoffed, without humour. It did little to improve Adam’s mood. He didn’t crack a smile or laugh at Ronan’s expense. Maybe he saw too much violence in Ronan, a storm he couldn’t calm. _I want to be better for you_ , Ronan wanted to say, but he didn’t know how. He didn’t know how to say it, and he didn’t know how to be better. Maybe all of Ronan’s anger looked too much like the past Adam was still running from.

“Sit down,” Adam commanded, and for once Ronan didn’t protest. He slumped down onto Adam’s bed, leaning back against the headboard. Adam slipped into the bathroom and returned brandishing a bottle of antiseptic and some cotton pads. He gave Ronan a look when the other boy opened his mouth that said ‘ _Don’t argue.’_

Adam sat across form Ronan, legs crossed and pulled tight. Their knees were touching slightly, and Ronan could feel it in every single one of his nerve endings. Adam wet a pad with the solution and moved forward, until his warm breath fanned across Ronan’s face. His hand blocked Ronan’s vision of Adam’s intense stare, as he gently wiped the pad across the bridge of Ronan’s nose where the skin had torn. Hot flames of pain spread across Ronan’s face, and he jerked his head back.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he swore eloquently, as he gingerly pressed his fingers to the side of his nose. Adam frowned, and he gently pressed his fingers into Ronan’s chin, drawing his face back toward him. The touch sent electric shocks all over Ronan’s body, his brain short-circuiting. The only things he could process were the pain and the fact that Adam was touching him.

Delicately, Adam cleaned all of Ronan’s cuts, ignoring the snarls of pain and the “ _Fuck, Parrish,”_ every time he brushed over a particularly tender spot. By the time Adam was done, Ronan’s skin was raw and he could feel himself drifting. Adam seemed to realise this, giving Ronan that furrowed eyebrow look as he examined his handiwork. He stared at the angry bruise on Ronan’s left side, his frown deepening. Ronan watched as his hand moved, and couldn’t bring himself to pull away, even when Adam grazed his fingers over his injured skin. He groaned in pain, and Adam’s hand jerked back instantly. His eyes flicked up to meet Ronan’s, an unspoken apology in them.

“You should go to a hospital.” Neither of them had spoken in a while, and Ronan wished it had stayed that way.

“If I go to a hospital, Declan, Gansey, and Matthew will find out,” Ronan explained through gritted teeth, and Adam didn’t seem pleased with the excuse.

“They already know you do this.” That stung. _They already expect a disappointment. They expect you to fuck up._ Ronan looked away, and Adam sighed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Don’t lie, Parrish. You did mean it like that,” Ronan snapped back, eyes blazing, and Adam’s shoulders slumped. They were insanely close. Adam’s hands were folded in the mattress between them, and his fingers pressed against Ronan’s shins. If he focused, Ronan could feel Adam’s breath against his cheeks, and Ronan was all too aware of that. “I know I fuck up, over and over again.”

“So do something about it!” Adam laughed coldly, throwing his hands into the air. “Try to be _better_ Ronan!”

“I _am_ trying! I don’t know- I don’t _understand_ what to _do._ ”  Ronan’s voice cracked embarrassingly at the end, and Adam looked pained and angry. Exhausted with this constant struggle. All Ronan did was _push_ and _push_ , and one day they were going to push back. Maybe today was that day. “I’m tired, Par- _Adam._ Can I just- I’ll go to the hospital tomorrow.” He was desperate to avoid this conversation. He’d go to the hospital, for Adam, even if it meant facing Gansey and Declan and Matthew.

Adam’s eyebrows arched, and he sat back, relenting. New light shadowed Adam’s face; the bags under his eyes were suddenly more obvious than they had been.

“Okay. Just go to sleep. Where did you leave the BMW? I’ll pick it up for you.” Ronan sighed in relief, and gave Adam the address of the bar and the keys. He didn’t want Adam to leave, the sadness clawing at his chest, but the pressure to remain upright in front of him was becoming too much.

Ronan wanted to say something to Adam, before he left. Thank him. Apologise. Confess.

Instead, he watched Adam walk out the door without saying another word.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Leave me a comment here or on my tumblr, saffron-skies.


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